A Run In With The EITC
by Jennifer Lynn Weston
Summary: The incident which launched Jack Sparrow's pirate career, told from three different perspectives. PG for one act of violence.


_'Pirates of the Caribbean' belongs to Disney._

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Ensign Joshamee Gibbs leaned over the starboard railing of the _Wicked Wench_, watching the shore recede behind them. He could no longer spot any dark figures moving among the brush; that cover which would serve them well. The only sign of the fifty-four people who'd recently dashed into that unsettled landscape were the rows of footprints on the beach, and the next tide would obliterate those. There was a better-than-average chance that most, and possibly all, would make good their escape.

Gibbs made the sign of the cross over his view, to give them luck. This was the Ensign's first voyage aboard a slave-carrying ship- one day into it he'd made a solemn promise he would never, under any circumstances, sign up for such a venture again. Now that it had ended, far earlier than expected, he was profoundly grateful. He didn't even feel much regret that he'd have to forfeit his pay. Though that was probably a minority opinion.

The furrowed beach was lost to sight as the _Wench_ exited the cove, bearing westward. Back towards Ghana.

Gibbs turned back to the deck. Several hands were still picking up the dropped leg-irons, all looking distinctly sullen. The bo'sun, in particular, kept sending very baleful looks towards the steering station. Gibbs knew why, recalling the shouting match the man had had with the Captain, over whether all the wenches were to be unchained- _Yes, every last one of them!_ Sparrow had shrewdly figured that, if the women and youngsters were let off first, their menfolk would be more likely to follow their lead rather than linger to settle scores.

It'd been a touch-and-go business from the start. Immediately out of Port Elmina, the Captain, claiming new orders, had steered the ship east- directly opposite from their assigned Caribbean destination. They'd had a time locating that one singular cove on the Nigerian coast (which Sparrow knew of from a previous voyage) where the dropoff was so steep a barque could pull in to lay a gangplank directly onto shore. Only after the _Wench_ had been maneuvering into position, and all the frightened suspicious slaves had been brought on deck, did the Captain announce this cargo was to be released. He had gotten late word these slaves could be carrying a rare blood-fever; not contagious yet, but sure to become so before the voyage was up. If the crew had no yearning to sail into Port Royal as corpses they'd be well advised to unload now.

That had been a spectacle Gibbs would never forget. The Captain had told the slaves, via his ten-year-old translator Samuel, that they were to get off here and do it fast. Such astonishment, joy, alarm, and great excitement swept their faces as could keep a fellow energized for a year. When the gangplank crashed down the whelps and wenches, as predicted, rushed out as if fleeing the devil himself. All except that one girl who'd run the other way, throwing her arms around one of the still-chained men, obviously declaring she wouldn't leave without him as he just as obviously imploring her to go. Sparrow had ordered that man unlocked first, and the couple had run off faster than Gibbs would've thought a clinging pair could possibly manage.

The remaining males were set loose one at a time, always accompanied by the Captain's barked urges (via Samuel) to not do anything stupid; just **Go!** Even the big surly guy, who looked like he'd be trouble for certain, had glanced at the several drawn pistols and heeded the advice. Last off had been Samuel himself, at his own request:

"Please, Captain Sparrow- can I get off too?"

"By all means, lad. Good luck to you!"

That exchange had confirmed, in crew's minds, on whose authority Sparrow had actually been acting. It was probable Gibbs was now the only man aboard thinking remotely favorable thoughts about him.

/ _It must be lonely, bein' the only one what thinks ya done the right thing. Maybe I outta let him know I second his opinion._ /

Being careful to keep a distance from the other crew members (every mother's son of them roiling to pick a fight), Gibbs crossed to ascend the quarterdeck stairs. But he hesitated at the top. The ship's commander, clutching the wheel with tightly balled fists, was glowering like a storm cloud. Gibbs parked himself by the railing and waited.

"Do you have a concern, Ensign?" the Captain snapped.

"Aye, I do, Sir. Is there going to be trouble when we get back to Elmina?"

"Why you ask, Mr. Gibbs?"

Gibbs decided to lay his cards on the table. "Sir, we suspected at the start that you may've been spinnin' us a yarn about that fever. And when you let young Samuel off, we knew ya had. There's no way the Company'd ever authorize your lettin' him go. A translator what speaks African, Spanish and English, and who don't take no pay, is worth half a cargo."

Sparrow glared. "You consider that proof I deliberately disobeyed orders? And just why do you think I'd do such a thing, Sir?"

"Fer one thing, I was watchin' when you got word about what cargo we'd be takin' on. You looked like you'd just bit into a maggot-pie."

Jack snorted. "Go on."

"And as I know from hearin', most slave-ship captains don't show up for the loading, They come aboard when all's stowed away, and turn a deaf ear an' a blind eye to all that goes on below deck afterwards. But you supervised it all, always barking at the crew to stop bruising the cargo." Gibbs stepped closer, spoke at a low volume. "Methinks all the evidence indicates: Captain Jack Sparrow has no hankerin' ta be involved in this trade. As neither do I."

Regarding Gibbs keenly, Jack growled, "There's times and circumstances that justify doing another some harm- even killing him. But robbing a man, or a wench, of all freedom, just to fatten your purse... There's no justification on earth fer that, mate. Never!" His voice softened a bit. "You've no cause for worry, Mr. Gibbs. I'll take full responsibility for any and all complaints the East India Trading Company may have. There'll be no blame put on any of the crew."

"And what about yerself, Sir?"

The Captain took a glance about before answering. "Keep this stowed, Ensign, but I'd been planning to resign my commission soon anyway. I've had a bellyful of dealing with that git Beckett, with all his bloody cutting back on 'unnecessary expenditures'- unnecessary fer them what stays ashore, maybe! And his bloody-fool regulations. 'All shipboard officers to wear wigs throughout their on-duty hours'- doesn't he know how infernally hot those rat nests get? Especially in these latitudes? Just who's he think they're going to impress- the seabirds?" Jack's face twitched, like he had additional reasons to despise Beckett, but decided not to voice them.

Gibbs' concern must have shown, for Jack continued in a reassuring voice. "Look, don't get yer innards into a state over me. Beckett will insist on a court martial, I shouldn't wonder. But what's that? A bit of telling-off in public, maybe get some worthless scraps torn off me clothes. Or, if I catch 'im in a bad mood, he may have the stockades provide me room and board for a couple months. They won't be the worst accommodations I've ever had, I can tell you."

Gibbs sagged. "Aye. It'll really be more the Company's loss. Yer a long shot fairer 'en most other shipmasters, Cap'in Jack. I'll regret havin' no further chance to serve under yer command."

Sparrow gave him a smile- that sunny, confident grin with the power to make Gibbs feel better about any situation they might be in. "Call off the violins, mate. The fortunes of seamen are changeable as the winds. It could well be we two'll meet again, on some other ship or shore, under circumstances we haven't yet come close to being in the vicinity of suspecting."

Three days later, following his return to Ghana, Jack Sparrow was arrested.

x

Cutler Beckett quietly pushed back the cover of his 'spy hole', looking from his office into his anteroom. Many a colleague in the East India Trading Company would consider this habit to be somewhat ungentlemanly- clandestinely studying his visitors, prior to confronting them face to face. But Beckett knew people were more apt to reveal clues to their mental states when they were unaware his eye was upon them. This gave him advantages for dealing with anyone, be they an underling, superior, rival, potential conquest, newcomer or long associate.

Or, as was the case now, criminal offender. One soon-to-be-former Captain Jack Sparrow.

Beckett was both annoyed and amused to note that, even manacled and between two beefy guards, the impudent whelp managed to walk with a certain swagger. His facial expression, though tense, was as yet unafraid. Well, the boy would likely have a different look by the time he left.

As per Beckett's instructions, the guards shoved Sparrow into the heavy wooden chair adjacent to the blazing fireplace, and proceeded to bind his arms to the rests. Sparrow did seem disconcerted by that, though still more puzzled than fearful.

Having completed their task, the guards stepped back, allowing Beckett an unobstructed view of the prisoner. Only partially in uniform, of course. And still sporting that disgraceful matted-dog hairstyle... which, admittedly, was not totally unbecoming on him. In fact, the young man was quite comely overall. Beckett allowed himself just a few seconds to appreciate that aspect.

But, business first. Always.

This latest incident had confirmed beyond question, Sparrow's unsuitability for EITC employment. Beckett had commissioned the barely-of-age but phenomenally skillful seaman, due to his past record of fortitude, courage and resourcefulness. Unfortunately, he'd subsequently proven to be undisciplined, woefully lacking in respect for authority, and far too independent. Also stubbornly resistant to his superior's best efforts to correct those failings. Beckett supposed he shouldn't have expected otherwise from one of his ancestry- allegedly the son of a pirate and a gypsy wench.

It was past time for this impertinent brat to receive a lesson on the consequences of scofflaw behavior. One he'd carry for the rest of his life.

Sparrow was now peering curiously about the room, like the bird of his name, as if seeking the purpose for his being here. It occurred to Beckett that, if any eye were sharp enough to discern this spy hole, it might well be Jack's. Straightening, Beckett replaced the cover, and strode through the door to the anteroom.

As Beckett approached, Sparrow looked up brightly, seeming not to notice his superior's glacierial aspect.

"Mr. Beckett, this degree of restraint is really unnecessary," he protested, shifting his arms as far as the bindings allowed. "I'm only an insubordinate sailor, not a criminal."

Beckett paced to and fro before Jack as he spoke. "Mr. Sparrow, I fail to see how you can claim that, in view of the fact that you have, by your own admission, committed a serious crime."

Jack shrugged. "I jus' let a few people get off me ship."

"And in so doing, cost this Company a considerable loss of profit. Not to mention a highly valuable translator, young Samuel."

Jack interjected, "His name is Nyamekye, Sir. Not Samuel."

Beckett tilted his head, in what many would recognize as a distinctly menacing gesture. "Just out of curiosity: how do you know this?"

"He told me. After I asked him."

"The bo'sun did report to me, the two of you spent an unseemly amount of time in conversation," Beckett sniffed. "Then let me inform you; regardless of his name, he was company property which you had no right to..."

"People ain't property!" Jack insisted.

Beckett frowned. "The East India Trade Company is hardly interested in your political opinions. And shall certainly not accept them as justification for your actions."

"I'll be happy to plead guilty at the court-martial. That'll save you some time and expense," the prisoner offered, almost like a little boy trying to wheedle his way out of punishment.

"Again, you fail to appreciate just how serious your malefaction is. Had you refused to take aboard the commissioned cargo, that would have been insubordination- a court-martial offense. But you accepted the cargo and subsequently disposed of it in a completely unauthorized manner. That constitutes an act of theft against the East India Trade Company. In other words..." Beckett halted, fixing a basilisk glare the younger man. "Piracy, Mr. Sparrow. For which the penalty is considerably harsher."

To Beckett's gratification, Jack looked truly frightened, at least for a second. "Surely not the gallows, Sir?"

"That is one of several possibilities. As it happens, I have been given authorization to decide which among them shall be deemed appropriate. Would you care to beg me for leniency?" Jack stared fixedly at Beckett, but kept his mouth shut. "No, I didn't expect so. You're quite the arrogant little upstart, Sparrow. In need of stern disciplinary measures. To that end, I have already ordered your ship to be towed to the deepest part of the straits and set ablaze."

Jack actually paled. "Not the _Wicked Wench_!"

"How many vessels do you own, Sparrow? Pirate ships may lawfully be seized, and sunk. Thanks to this escapade of yours, the _Wench_ now qualifies as a pirate ship."

Jack came as close to pleading as Beckett had ever seen. "Sir, surely it should suffice to just confiscate her. How will it profit the Company to destroy one of the fastest ships on the ocean?"

"Burning her shall provide a cautionary example to other potentially-disobedient seamen. Well worth the price." Beckett leaned close for a moment, looking straight into the other's distraught face. "And I have also come to decision about what's to be done with you."

Deliberately turning his back on Sparrow, Beckett walked the few steps to the burning fireplace. A long metal pole leaned against one corner of the hearth, it's tip buried deep in the hot coals. Beckett grasped the pole's handle, withdrew the other end from the fire, swung around to hold it before Jack's face. The tip was a red-hot branding iron, shaped into a letter 'P'.

Sparrow recoiled as far as the chair back would allow, though he neither squirmed nor started whimpering, as so many of them did. The burly guards edged nearer, ready to grasp whatever part of the captive might need to be restrained.

Beckett inched the brand closer, 'til the red glow shone back from the intense brown eyes, highlighted the finely-sculpted cheekbones. / _Quite a beautiful face, certainly. It would be rather a shame to mar it. _/

"I shall show you this one consideration, Mr. Sparrow. As you most likely acted out of youthful impetuousness, I shall refrain from marking you in the more disfiguring manner." He twitched the brand in a circle before the prisoner's forehead. "Instead..." he gestured to Jack's right wrist; one guard reached to clamp down that limb on either side. "...I shall apply it to the alternate location."

With a gloating flourish, Beckett positioned the red P above Sparrow's wrist and pressed down, hard. There was a sharp hiss- Jack threw his head back, emitting a loud, ragged gasp, as the reek of burnt flesh permeated the room. Beckett maintained the pressure for several seconds before withdrawing the brand, then leaned close to check his handiwork. Satisfied that the black-edged wound was deep enough to assure prominent scarring, Beckett leisurely replaced the instrument in the fireplace and returned to the prisoner.

Jack was thrashing his head a bit, teeth gritted, breathing hard. Beckett leaned close to snarl directly into his ear.

"The pain will diminish in about a week. But the mark shall remain with you until your dying day. And don't imagine any honest shipmaster will ever fail to check for it. You've no vessel of your own anymore, and no chance of being hired as crew by another. In brief: your seafaring days are at an end, Jack Sparrow."

Jack just clenched his eyes more tightly shut. Beckett straightened, gestured towards him dismissively.

"Return him to the stockades. And put him under double guard."

The guards untied the prisoner and led him out, stumbling all the way. Beckett smiled as he watched them go. The whelp had been broken as easily as anticipated- these brasher troublemakers usually did. All bravado and no real resilience, that sort. The sojourn over, Cutler returned to his office, where he had far more important work to attend to.

Eight hours later, Beckett was awakened by one of the stockade guards, reporting that Jack Sparrow had vanished from his cell.

x

Brother Andrew carefully slid the battered leather volume off the shelf, slipped it behind his sleeve, and quickly crossed to the door of the Mission library. It was not his first choice to be so surreptitious, but Father Gregory was reading at a nearby table and Andrew preferred to avoid any inquiries as to what manner of book he was making use of this time.

It was a low-key, but constant, disagreement he had with his superiors- this expenditure of so much time and effort on non-religious instruction. But it was Brother Andrew's firm belief that God sanctioned the dispensing of all varieties of knowledge (short of irrefutably harmful ones) to anybody with an honest desire to learn. And, though many of his colleagues would disagree with him, he was convinced God had awarded that capacity even to the 'undeveloped' Black Race. Certain of the students here were living proof of that.

On this occasion, Andrew made it out of the library and across the courtyard without incident. He smiled as he approached the open fortress gateway, through which could be seen beautiful acacia-studded savanna. It was entirely understandable that Samuel preferred to do his studying out here.

The youth was seated by the wall, on his favorite rough log bench, carefully reciting words from a language text. Andrew checked it over his shoulder.

"Italian now, Samuel? How many tongues does that make?"

"Six, Brother," the boy replied. Andrew shook his head admiringly. Like everyone else in the mission, he'd been skeptical when the youngster first arrived at the school, saying he wanted to learn every language spoken by the White Men. He'd been a slave, for a mercifully short number of years, and wanted to be able to tell all the whites what terrible suffering the loss of friends and friends was inflicting on his people. Surely then, Samuel reasoned, the raiders would be too ashamed to come anymore.

The lad's ambitions were now more realistic; he understood it would take more than communication skills to end the devastating trade. But it was still his intention to master as many languages as he could, and the Mission school teachers were willing to assist his demonstrated genius for doing so. The Superiors had already taken steps to assure that, when Samuel reached adulthood, he'd have opportunities to make a good living from his ability. There was always a ready market for multi-lingual translators, particularly in the shipping industries.

And to think, considered Andrew, so many would have thought nothing of squandering the lad's amazing talent- working him to death on a sugar plantation.

Samuel looked to Andrew expectantly, as the latter handed him the smuggled volume. It was a copy of 'The Odyssey', in the original Greek. Following their usual game, Andrew said, "I hope you enjoy this as much as I did, Naw-yah-Meh-kee-eh."

The boy made a face. Andrew grinned sheepishly. "Still not quite right?"

Samuel's tone was forgiving. "I know it's hard for most white people to pronounce. The only one I've ever heard say it right was Captain Sparrow."

Andrew searched his memory for a moment. "That was the captain who let you and the others off his ship?"

"Yes. And he was kind to me before then." Samuel turned appreciative eyes to the southern horizon. Towards the sea. "I've decided, when I'm a translator, I'm going to try to get job at one of the big ports. Maybe Captain Sparrow's ship will come in sometime, and I can find out what he's doing now."

Fourteen years later, at a distant port, Jack Sparrow had an entirely unexpected encounter.

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**FINIS**


End file.
